


Sunday Sunday

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eridan finds himself working as a cheap radio DJ for a tinpot studio in the small hours of the morning, with producer's son Sollux coming in as a temporary replacement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Sunday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> for tobi, who owes me a story about canaries

_"That was Sunday, Sunday from Blur, and we're back to me, Eridan Ampora on the BBC 6 tin pots -- I'm kidding a' course the BBC bein' a perfectly respectable studio a' sorts -- studios down here; it's BBC 6 Down In The Deeps! For our older listeners, you will know the drill, classic little smarms through the ages, we'll be bringin' 'em back to life for your very service, strikin' up what memories haven't been swept away by the ebullient waves a' pot you are indubitably doin' currenlty. *Laughter*_

_"For those who aren't so accustomed t'the show, I am Eridan Ampora here, your handsome young DJ and I'll be bringin' you down through a list of chosen tunes y'may or may not have forgotten, perhaps you haven't heard a' them before, p'rhaps you ought start takin' out a bleedin' notebook take some notes to seduce that lucky lady a' yours for Pete’s sake._

_"Now I before I do go on an' forget him again, here is my rather lithpy comrade, back this week to replace my regular minion Tall Gamz while he's out with the flu, compatriot a' the outer slums a' even the most abbreviated socialite circles, in utter, utter shambles he's passing off as clothing, really it's an absolute embarrassment t'see here in the studio; my cohort Sollux Captor with me."_

_"Thup."_

_".... And that's all that we're gettin' out a him for now, apparently. Quite a charmer ain't he? *Chair swivel, mumbling* Yes well y'ought to at least give it a try, don't you think? *more mumbling* Yes well, we'll leave that up to them, won't we? Folks, I am tryin' my absolute hardest to get the best out a' my comrade here, an' I really would appreciate it if you could send over a generous stream a' provocations to get him talkin', or seein' as he's technically in charge a' pushin' at the buttons as a constant, send in an absolute tidal waves a' requests you might want your fellow listeners to hear, we'll see if we can get a rise out a' this guy, hey? Six-four-two-oh-six, BBC 6 Down In The Deeps, and now, we're leavin' you with a bit of Simon an' Garfunkel's Me An' Julio an' some news to tide you over."_

\---

There is a loud click as Sollux flicks the transfer on the masterboard and the red bulb goes off, and you swivel to gaze haphazardly at your uncooperative newcomer. You've got ten minutes to chew this guy out as the studio inevitably allots some extra time slotting to that annoying squeaky caster you hate so much. But you guess that's what you get for selling yourself to one of the lowest standard broadcasts in the industry, and at this time of night you are hardly sure much will care what slots pass off onto whose anyway. You knew you shouldn't have taken on the producer's offer of having his son try the programs, and it would figure your downfall would be at the feet of kissing someone's ass.

"Sol," you say stretching every syllable to its limit to ensure sure he understands, "you do know we're on a live radio broadcast don't you?"

"That really did catch me by thurprithe, I'm tho glad you mentioned it. I wath wondering where I'd rethuthitated after that long draw of the mong ballth latht evening. Good to know, good to know."

"You're actually quite the chatty fella, aren't you."

"Why not you tell me, mithter DJ."

You narrow your eyes; a futile attempt against the neutrality of those anaglyph glasses. Clearly he had not been informed to the way things worked around here. Sarcasm was _your_ schtick, dammit. This isn't power play, this is war. And that lisp; it's a fucking menace, and you're wondering what on earth keeps his meager college career on the air if the grand majority of the audience is playing second-guess to every track and banter. A migraine threatens you from the inner depths of your temple, and you flick your glances around the red and blue squares, unable to trace even the least bit of vexation in those shiny glass reflectors.

"Sol," you try again, impatience ringing your tone, "I'm sure you do divulge quite a lot in maintainin' the stoic neutrality gimmick, but you ought t'understand you're kind a' bein' paid to abandon that for a minute and cater your not-so-appealin' vocals for th'sake a' your audience over here."

"I'm not being paid, my dad'th thent me here on a fucking tetht run for my college thide thessionth, and I sure ath hell wathn't ecthpecting a program run on the tholeth of vegan hipthter garbage."

You bite your tongue at quite a few snarky commentaries you've reserved for daddy's girls and think instead about the measly income you're depending on for tonight's dinner of jam on toast.

"Ok, look," you plead, contemplating heftily on slamming your fist deep at least five inches deep into that smirking mug, "let's just try somethin' out, all right. Just, an' I am downright pleadin' y'here, just handle the next two track intros, an' we can call it a night for you, all right? You get a good word t'your Da, and I get to go home to a measly apartment with a refrigerator full a' garbage and maybe manage to hold on to a place to sleep for another week, preferably a place that don't require me, per se, sellin' my body t'the respective browsers a' the night."

The twerp gives a little snort at this, and you can tell he's looking you up and down. You follow his gaze through the vintage thrift shop galaxy tee and skinny jeans, and your eyes settle on your customized pair of chucks. You sigh and pinch your nose, swiveling around to the mics at the oncoming sound of a beeping countdown. You flick daggers at him as you glance his way sharply, and he humors you enough to lean into his condenser.

There's the final blip for air time, and you hear him take a small intake of breath beside you.

"Hey there people, that wath a rather choithe thelection from Thtarth' latest releathe, Thet Yourthelf on Fire, Your Ecth-Lover Ith Dead; after all who ithn't a fan of the emotionally turbulent, hey? Thith ith Thollux here, ringing up the new trackth."

You're caught off guard for a minute by the sudden comeback in chatter, his voice syncing up perfectly to an amiable rise and question, a guaranteed inquiry to a sleepy crowd of English slum listeners. He strings through a quick hash tag of witty anecdotes and life stories, an absolute natural, and you are unprepared when he turns to you for insight, calling you out into the mic's broadcast.

"Thtill there, buddy?"

You blink. Three days you've been running backwater tracks on steady midnight streams and you've never been _buddy_.

"A' course I am, whose grandiose scheme a' things d'you think you're pullin' out a' your gut anyway," you counter. He gives you a lopsided smirk and an audible 'hrmph'. You didn't quite notice the slant of that taunting grin before. It adds a nice touch and you are back on your feet, between the two of you ringing up so much back and forth one liners and friendly berates that in a few minutes you're laughing unscripted and he has to screen the next intro in as you wheel away from the mic to calm down.

It's another news break, streaming steadily through another two hour run that for some reason doesn't seem so long tonight. Maybe it's because the little dipshit is being accommodating today, you think. He swivels back to face you, grinning wider than you've seen him before and judging from the lack of atmosphere in your last recs, this could actually not amount to much. He smiles like he hasn't tried it much before.

"I take it you're likin' a taste a' this vegan hipster garbage after all, yeah?"

"It'th not tho bad," he says, flicking at the uneven cuts of hair on his brow, "It'th definitely a lot livelier than they let uth do on college broadcathtth; apparently the printhipal doethn't approve much of anything that can get trathed back to thocial conduct recordth, tho cuthingth pretty much out, too."

He shrugs.

"Thethe are the highlighth of the midnight thtreamth, I'm guething? Though I haven't heard much bravado coming in for you and your juggalo friend, either."

You stiffen and raise your chin a bit.

"Yeah? You thinkin' you can do a better replacement than ol' Tall Gamz, hey? You've only been here quarter a' the time we've settled, let's not get ahead a' ourselves now."

At this he pulls out a grubby mobile from the depths of his jeans pocket, a cheap model that the studio has you working on for incoming text requests; a blatantly stupid shot in your case, seeing as hardly anyone is sobered enough at two am to regard sending inquiries as to what song played in the local Chinatown thrift shops that last three pm run. It's blinking with the light of a new message. He tosses it at you, quirking an eyebrow as you snatch at it and unlock the keypad.

Two new messages. Two new messages with a definite nod at the show's new turn, they're loving the new guy and they're loving you more than they ever have. The bristle of a compliment outweighs the peeve of thinking you owe it to Sol, and you decide to use it for the last half's honorable mentions, dedicating a few more modern tracks Sol has dug out from the system's playback because at this time of night who cares anyway. You're regretting it when the final buzz comes in, and Sollux snaps on his laptop pack, heading out to a car ride that is definitely waiting for him. And you, you've got a half an hour commute back to the dingy string of apartments in little past Soho, and you wonder if maybe sometime you can convince him to give you a lift back home. Hopefully you won't run over any wayward vagrants, you think, as you leave through the back exit and turn towards the closest metro.

\---

The week after next Gamzee calls in sick again after a straight five day run, wondering aloud if you've found any replacements for his line yet. You say yeah, and then immediately ring up your producer to commentate on his son's acceptable performance the other night and ask if he's available for another go at the boards. You can barely catch a few buttons popping off the jacket as his chest swells with pride, and he says, of course, he'll try to wean him off all those hours of Steam for once, kid could use a little more professional experience out of the nineties' plays he's made for the school's station. You hang up and fell pretty good for the rest of the day.

When he comes in through the studio door, you notice he's humming one of those Drifter's tracks you set out the other week, and having practiced with a few more board samplings from the station, the two of you spend some time playing location find with the super audio settings you've managed to discover. You manage to squeeze a grand total of three more texts from your sleep-ridden audience, and one of them begs Sollux to sing a few lines from the White Stripes because is there anything funnier than dragging a lisp through the length of one of Jack White's chatty verses. You say no and his cheeks slosh pink as you slip his condenser into center audio and he sings two lines of chorus from Little Ghost. There's something genuine about the way his nose turns red first and his blush is too quick to set in, setting you off-balance at the way you realize you've been noticing it before.

When he wheels to you during the news break he's actually looking you straight in the eyes this time, or at least you suspect it from the way the anaglyph are pointed directly at you for once.

"Ah, I could do thith forever, it'th a fucking laugh."

"That ain't such an unreasonable prospect," you admit, stretching out the full length of your legs and sighing into the swivel chair.

"Aw, you can't pothibly be thinking of leaving ol' Gamth out to the cold and lonely thtreetth now, could you?"

"Nah, he's been plannin' on shiftin' back to the afternoon fm's anyhow; he's got a bigger payroll down at Freak Show an' I know he's jus' been doin' me th'favor a' holdin' me steady until he could find a replacement."

"Gueth there'th not much pay for a Dubliner out on hith own, hey?"

"Not as such, the uncultured swine."

"Between Guineth thcotch and the lithping marauder we could be quite a riot," he chuckles, and pulls off his glasses to clear up a few smudges from the loose lens he's been picking at. It's the first time you've seen the atrocious things off, and he's got big gorgeous eyes you think; a little too young for someone who acts a lot more superior than their working experience should have them be. They're a mismatched brown that dips into black shepherd with deep blue, and you're still staring when he turns back to you. He's got crows feet that come when he's grinning, and you wonder why your favorite scarf suddenly fits you a lot less than you were sure it did a quarter to two hours ago.

"Thee thomething you like, mithter DJ?"

"You're fuckin' beautiful, Captor," you say bemusedly, and he sniggers so violently you have to glide back to take the next intro to cover him. There's one last text before the end, asking how long the two of you have been close friends, and asking for a bit of Bob Dylan to end the night. You say not for very long actually, then fade the track to end it. After hours, you manage to suppress enough pride to squeeze a ride from him back home, despite his having to go several blocks out of the way to get there, but he's in such a good mood about the position shift he doesn't berate you much for your low-class address. When you watch him ride away in the driver's seat of a battered SUV, you wonder how honest you were being back at the studio.

\---

You slip quietly into the studio room, Sollux already polishing away at a set list of tracks with adjustable back-ups for quick theme challenges, which you've upgraded to a regular feature to while the hours away. It pays having the producer's son on payroll, you think, and by your second week together the pair of you have been bumped up to one of the higher class joints, with an actual desk to slam your shoulder bag onto and Google up quick artist-album details should it be requested, having bumped up from the usual three to a minimum ten texts per weekly session. You've pushed for a noontime slot for more viewers and actual bill board offers, but Sol makes a steady fight for the slow pacing of midnight runs, which he defends to be quiet and besides the early morning junkies are a hoot for DJ requests. You let him be; since you've gained a more respectable rating, your pay has come up enough for you to justify buying seasonal wardrobes without having to sacrifice two weeks worth of breakfast. Sometimes when he invites you for breakfast, you are now enabled a right to sniff your nose at him and fork over a tenner for the two of you, and you're dreaming of the day this doesn't also require the less frequented diner carts.

You're halfway through the session when he spins around his chair twice and stops to face you.

"Got a thurprithe for you, guy."

"I keep tellin' you I don't want any a' your watered down electropop mixtapes for fuck's sake. That stuff hasn't got the right t'be pullin' itself off as any kind a' honest to goodness music in my humble opinion."

"You're humble opinion ith worth about ath much to me ath your conthtant off-air five penth drivel," he shoots, then gets up to rifle through his laptop pack. His arm emerges successfully with a flat record case, and he holds it triumphantly with an exuberant puff of the chest, finally handing it over to you cover-down.

"I didn't bother wrapping it."

"Mighty thoughtful a' you," you say inquisitively, and from the corner of your vision you see him grinning absurdly when you turn it front side, your eyes going wide and the blood leaving your lips dry and slacked.

"Happy thtudio monththary or thome shit."

"You... utter, fuckin' bastard," you say.

"Knew you'd like it, took me damn near a fortune to get my handth on a copy," he swings his arms behind his head and swivels the chair around like a pleased little kid, "Finally tracked it down to one of thothe dumb garage thriftth you like tho much."

"I've had my eye on Solo's for months."

"That'th the one."

It's a mint copy of an old Drifter's EP, you skim over every detail of its illustrated cover, you swivel it around and it's been living its glory days since the early fifty's when production managed to stem up with the music business revival, perfect and genuine and one hundred percent yours after two years of pining once you'd left home to find your fortune in the big, bad world and fallen instead for two-penny radio and bunch of juvenile dreams.

You finally look up and he's got his eyes closed and looking so fucking please with himself, and you find yourself thinking just how easy it would be to go over there and grab him and just -- just, what? You stop and clench your teeth, giving him a well-aimed kick to the closest wheel you can manage, satisfied with the way he spins off, generously proffering a wide array of cusses and threats to take back your new toy.

You spend the small morning hours poring over your new vinyl, your _first_ vinyl, and he strings a number of Drifter's classics through the station broadcast, not caring if listeners are dropping like flies from listening to something their grandparent's use to sashay down the living room carpets to. You steal his glasses halfway through and perform your best impression of the inscrutable lisping, and after a while of angry objections, he settles down and you sit back and admire the way his nose crinkles and turns cherry red from shame while you play echoes of the Bellamy Brothers in the background. 

You both laugh at the right times and give theoretical debacles to while away the last quarter, and by the time the you are on your last feature you are so, so sorry that morning had to come at all. You fade off to Air Traffic, and the lively beats leave you feeling numb at the controls while Sol gets up to retrieve his battered pack, but you rise to meet him with his hands on the light switch and gazing quizzically at you from three inches too short, one eyebrow arced in the same way he did it that long month ago, when you'd managed to plead him into cooperating for the sake of keeping your dinner for a week.

You've never noticed how small he seems when you're standing toe-to-toe, and from this angle you can catch the way the light flecks off his irises while they hide behind blues and reds, and the deep brown and ocean blue are just a little more stunning than the tacky anaglyph shades could ever even hope to be. It's too late for this kind of bullshit you think, and without another word you decide to press your lips softly against his, a seconds' worth of a peck that surprises him so his hand slips on the switch and now both of you are left standing in momentary indecision between the dark of the vacant studio and the hallway light slipping in through the door crack he's holding open. The shadows make you wonder if he's gone cherry again, and you don't say anything but kiss him again so you can feel the heat radiating off his cheeks and you know, you just _know_ , he has.

He pulls back for a bit and you're numb, waiting for the weight of the open door to shift onto your shoulder as he lets go and takes off in silence. But your shoulder stays free, and he take off the shades, folding them and carefully placing them in the inner pockets of his coat, looking up at you with those big lovely kid's eyes.

"You're thuch a piethe of fuckin' low-clath trash."

You bite your tongue at a few snarky comments you've reserved for daddy's girls and think about pink cheeks and crow's feet instead, as he lets you slip your hand around his and you bend over him, breathing softly into his lips as you kiss him in the deep dark of two-thirty.


End file.
